The Bull Fighter
by SpartAl412
Summary: On the cursed nights when the Chaos Moon of Morrslieb casts its gaze upon the world, men seek shelter and pray to the gods for salvation from the dark things which desire nothing more than to spill the blood of the innocent. Upon one such night, salvation comes from a most unlikely source.


High above the world where the darkness of night filled the sky, the moon of Morrslieb cast its baleful gaze upon the world. All across the wilds and even in the cities of men, dark things stirred. On the border of the Bretonnian province of Montfort there was an inn which was located by the road heading towards Axebite pass. For many years this inn had also served as a place of rest for weary travels coming into or out of the provinces of Quenelles or Parravon as well.

On nights such as these ones people sought shelter, they locked their doors and prayed to the gods for safety. On nights such as this when men would be fearful, the worries of those at the inn were calmed by a song which filled the taproom. Ironically within The Sylvan's Rest Inn, no one expected the dark thing which they allowed inside.

Upon the stage where poets, minstrel, and entertainers performed, there sat a bard upon a simple wooden stool. In his hands he held a lute and he sang an old song from his homeland of Estalia, while the Bretonnians and Imperials who heard it mostly did not understand what the song was, they could unanimously agree that it was pleasant to the ears.

The bard himself wore a wide-brimmed black hat with a magnificent white feather attached to it, his hands were covered in gloves of polished black leather, he was dressed in a loose billowed shirt, his tight trousers and extravagant shoes were all of the colors of crimson and cream. When the bard's song ended he removed his cap and stood while bowing to the inn's patrons, the crowd cheered with more than a few asking for another song.

The bard's hair was long, curled and dark brown, he sported a thin and well-groomed beard over his chin, he also had a noticeable moustache and goatee which gave him a mischievous appearance. His skin was darker compared to that of the other patrons. His eyes which were blue captivated the audience which applauded him, the bard smiled with his lips still shut, for none in the audience could see the fangs that lay within. What the men and women inside the tavern did not know was that the bard was a vampire.

'Encore! Encore!' Cheered a sandy-haired Bretonnian lad clad in mail armor as he clapped and applauded, his friends too who were likely also Errant Knights enjoyed the spectacle and they mirrored his sentiment.

'Aye let's hear another one! Shouted a plump merchant dressed in a silken velvet doublet, his accent was Imperial and soon the crowd began asking for another song.

'As you wish! Fair _Senors y Senoras_!' Replied the vampire enthusiastically 'How about something more lively eh?'

Taking a seat once more, the vampire sat down and began to play his lute. This time he played an upbeat bawdy Tilean marching song which was commonly sung among its mercenary companies. Its tune was easy to follow and soon the crowd began clapping and dancing along with it, their worries of witches and daemons outside had been dispelled and even all thoughts of class and nationality had disappeared for it was all replaced with drinking and merry-making.

As the vampire played, he caught the sight of more than a few women who were eyeing him, he mischievously grinned at them, his eyes seeing the heart-fires in all of the mortals. His mouth salivated for he had not fed in a few days and he began the quiet process of deciding which one to pick. Just be patient, Alejandro Cassimere thought to himself, enjoy the attention of the audience that loves your song, let them forget the troubles of the world and tonight you shall reap coin and blood.

* * *

Outside the inn of the Sylvan's Rest, under the canopy of trees where the wood and briar began, Rhaa-gor the Ungor watched the human dwelling with anticipation. He thought of all the meat and flesh that lay within, he could smell the flesh of horses, goats, oxen, mules and most succulent of all, man. His mouth salivated and he wanted to go in and begin killing, he heard the sounds of carousing and celebrating within and it was likely the stupid creatures were getting themselves drunk.

Yes… he thought there would also be wine hidden under the dwelling. Softly snorting with barely contained excitement, he rushed back to the camp of his kin. His travel was swift and without trouble, he was briefly halted by the Bestigor guards of their camp, they bleated and raised their weapons threateningly at Rhaa-gor who loosed his bowels in fear. The two sentries then began to laugh and they lowered their weapons and allowed him to pass.

Shame and anger burned within Rhaa-gor and he promised to Tchar that one day he would put a dagger in their backs, he made his way to the tent of their tribe's chieftain, Carnur the Doom Bull. He saw their Minotaur leader sitting upon massive a massive stone outcropping his eyes were focused on a fire in front of him, he sharpened his axe which glowed with arcane sigils and sparks began to fly from the edges. The Doom Bull turned his head and glared at Rhaa-gor, the lowly Ungor prostrated himself and began chanting sycophantic praised to the chieftain.

His praises pleased the chieftain's vanity and the Minotaur allowed Rhaa-gor to stand. The Ungor told the chieftain of the inn, of the men, animals and wine that lay within. He saw the Minotaur's mouth begin to salivate as well; he knew their chieftain had come to the same conclusion as Rhaa-gor. The Doom Bull then rose and brandished his axe, it glinted with the light of the fire and he began roaring to his kin.

All around them, the tribe began roaring their approval, their weapons raised high and drums were pounded. They chanted the names of the Dark Gods and they offered them thanks and praise for what was to come. Tonight the tribe would feed well and they would feast on flesh and blood.

* * *

Sitting comfortably upon the bed Alejandro had rented, there was a girl named Beatrice who sat beside him. Her skin was fair with a healthy pallor despite her so slim a frame, her face bore many freckles and her eyes were the color of blue. From what strands of hair he could see under her headdress, it was colored brown. He found her to be a little on the pretty side, but hardly the most gorgeous of women he had seen tonight. He learned that she was one of many maids currently traveling with a noble lady from Parravon who had been returning with her husband after visiting said lady's family in Bastonne to clear up some inheritance business.

His true reason for choosing the handmaiden this night was that if any unfortunate "accident" would happen while he fed, she would be the least likely one to be missed. It was always like that really, if a peasant or a commoner died, no one cared much and the ones who would try to avenge the deceased would be more likely to give up. But when a noble died then one such as he would have to move to another country or find a place to lie low for a few years.

How he picked her was through a simple survey of the crowd earlier as they made merry. He noted which woman was married or with a lover and which one would be the most likely to respond well to his advances. He had searched and watched their body languages as easily as if one were to study a piece of _objet d'art_ and gauge the meaning of the artist. It was something he had more than a century's worth of experience.

In Bretonnia where women had to travel with a male escort or chaperone, it was easy for him to pick her out due to a lack of one. Although, he did eye one lovely, young golden-haired knight he realized quickly was a woman disguised as a male. She would have been his first choice if he had the luxury, for he had always enjoyed the fiery ones who could fight. He briefly found himself missing Kislev and the fiery maidens who made their homes in that dreadfully cold frozen land.

Unfortunately it was quite obvious that lady knight's companions knew nothing of her identity and it would have been… immodest at best if he began to show quite a bit of intimate interest in her with the crowd around. Not to mention that if an "accident" happened tonight, her companions would demand for his blood. It was not that he feared a group of mere children who thought they could play at war, but there were a few real and dangerous looking knights amongst the crowd tonight.

It had been simple to charm Beatrice with his looks and the whole "charming foreigner" routine, which in a way was actually true. He had been amused by the smoldering looks the other women (especially those of the nobility) had given Beatrice when the vampire had gone to her. He had found the girl to be a nervous, shy inexperienced and rather awkward creature who seemed lonely and in need of a release from the stress of her work.

He smiled and listened to her story, how she was raised in the mountains of Parravon under her stern but fair mistress. He listened as she claimed that most men found her a bit too quite and shy for their tastes, she was worried that in a few years if she did not marry then she would soon be considered too old to bear children and then no man would want to marry her. He gave crocodile tears for her and offered her a chance to experience what she had been missing.

'I… I don't know about this' Beatrice said nervously as she looked away shyly, he could see she was blushing, and he could see her uncertainty as well.

'I will not force you if you do not wish to' lied the vampire while playing up his Estalian accent, despite being able to speak in Breton quite perfectly and even sound like one. Of course if she refused he would be forced to use a more mystical form of charm, but such would be an unnecessary waste of energy if he could avoid it. An awkward moment of silence passed for the girl as she struggled with indecision, for she retained those quaint yet naively charming notions of only engaging in the pleasures of the flesh with a spouse.

Wanting nothing more than to grab her and bite into her neck, now was the moment where control was most needed, where he would have to prove that he was in control and not a wild animal. The girl then swiftly leaned forward and pecked him on the lips she retracted and still she looked uncertain. He grinned and slowly he began to lean forward, his lips brushing against hers and he stopped to whisper 'I want to show you something…'

* * *

Rhaa-gor watched impatiently as the last lights within the human dwelling disappeared. He as well as many of his kin wanted to charge in already, but their chieftain Carnuc had told them to wait. While it galled Rhaa-gor to have wait, no one was brave enough to challenge the chieftain's words. There were storied amongst their tribe that the minotaur chieftain had come from the north. Not the far north of the land inhabited by the men who worshipped the hammer god, but to the furthest north where Dark Gods lived.

As the story went, Carnuc was brought south alongside an army of men who served the Dark Gods, but the army became lost and confused by the strange dancing spirits which haunted this land. The chieftain had become separated from the army of the north, when the chieftain had finally found them they had all been slain by the armored horse men. The chieftain took this as a sign of favor from Tchar and after many moons of wandering, he eventually he found their tribe.

Carnuc had challenged their previous chieftain to an honorable and one-sided duel which resulted in the Doom Bull becoming their current leader. He had led them to many victories against the humans, greenskins, restless dead and the ratmen that made mockeries of the Children of Chaos. With each victory they had fed well and made offerings to the Dark Gods. Looking upon the inn with ravenous intent, Rhaa-gor knew that for know they should watch and wait.

* * *

Alejandro felt warm and contented after his meal. He stood up beside the bed and he gently wiped a small bit of blood off the right side of his mouth with a white handkerchief which he neatly folded and placed back into his right pocket. Putting on a shirt of light chainmail, his travelling clothes and a black cape, he looked back to girl Beatrice who lay naked upon the bed with the blankets covering up to her waist.

She had become quite pale from his feeding, just to be sure he bent over the girl and he saw the ecstatic look in her face. He could see that her heart-fire remained; it was weak but still there. Having made sure to leave her enough blood so that she would simply need to rest, gently pulling the blanket up to her neck; one day perhaps he would like to taste her again.

He noted the side of her neck still had the two puncture holes from his fangs and knew that would not do. The Estalian had never considered himself cruel, even by the standards of his blood drinking kin. He learned early in his un-life the foolishness of thinking that a vampire could survive off of animals, monsters, mutants, and practically anything not human. He remembered that bitch of a "mother" who had forcibly brought him into this un-life, she told him over the decades about the origins of their kind and how the Great Necromancer had used human blood to create those dark elixirs.

Likely whatever blasphemous alchemy was used to make them what they were, was somehow preserved through the consumption of human blood. Thus he had lived his un-life by a simple code of conduct; do not drain mortals dry unless it is out of self-preservation or if he intended malice in the first place. There were times he had failed to live up to that code with the former; it filled him with regret each time. Eventually he would always get over it and simply resolve to do better the next time.

Alejandro himself had learned a bit about magic and alchemy over the century, while it was certainly not his forte it had its uses. Rummaging into a satchel he had placed beside a night stand, he took out a thin phial containing a mixture of an alchemical healing potion… of sorts. While it certainly would not affect him due to his undead state, and no use to a living warrior in the middle of a fight, the potion itself could rapidly speed the natural recovery process of a mortal for a time. Indeed he himself had used it on more than a few mortals when he needed to preserve them for "emergencies". Although it did give them such a strange aftertaste to which he found mildly disgusting.

Removing the stopper he sniffed the potion and was satisfied it had not become rancid for such things had happened in the past with results which were, unpleasant to say the least. He then began whispering to the girl and working a mystic charm, he gently lifted her head and positioned it so that he could gently pour the contents into her throat. When the deed was done he grinned and placed the phial back into his satchel. By the time she woke up, she would quickly be on the road to recovery and would think that their lovemaking had been the stuff of legends.

Packing up the rest of his belongings, he put on his hat and strapped his lute to his back; he then quietly made his way downstairs. He still had probably five or so hours to get to the nearest shelter before the sun rose, he remembered there was a village not far up the road for one with unnatural speed, he would find the town before dawn. He quietly descended down the staircase, he was mindful of the few drunk mortals that lay sprawled about, when he reached the front door he turned about-face to them and gave a formal bow while doffing his hat to his audience for the night.

After working the locks he knew that all he would have to do next would be to jump down the stone wall which would not be hard for one such as himself. As he took a step out, he suddenly stopped in his tracks; he smelled something foul, a mix of old blood, excrement, sweat and an animal stink. Beastmen, he realized, he heard the sounds of the animals in the stables as they began to become agitated, for they too could smell the mutants.

Climbing the stairs which led to the section of the walls where Men-At-Arms could fight from, he took a look over the ramparts and he saw the heart-fires of the mutants. There were a lot of them, more than the defenders of this inn could handle. Making a quick survey he saw that he had time to escape, his own unnatural speed would carry him to safety. He could hear their foul bleating, their roaring and chanting of the Dark Gods. He placed his hand on the top of the wall and was about to vault, but then he looked back to the inn and thought about the mortals within.

He had not performed like that in many years and the cheer and applause of them had driven him to further heights of musical artistry. Songs he had thought that he had forgotten came back in an instant and he reveled in their entertainment. In many ways they had reminded him of what he had once been and why in life he had become a bard. For a brief moment when preformed, he had been back in Bilbali where over a century ago he preformed for a gathering of lords and ladies who resided near the borders, his audience had been both Estalians and Bretonnians at the time and they had showered him with coin and praise.

Emotion warred within him and he heard the clatter of a spear that struck against the wall. He then remembered the women who were inside as well and what horrid fate would await them when the beasts broke through. Cursing himself for a fool and thinking that this stupid backwards country and their antiquated ideas of chivalry were getting to him, he rushed to the bell by the gate and began ringing so he could awaken those within.

After more than a few shakes of the bell he leapt off the wall and landed gracefully upon the muddy road. He removed his lute and set it by the wall, when he rose he dramatically used his right hand to throw back his cape as he swiftly pulled out his Ropera and Cinquedea from their sheaths, his two weapons caught the light of the green moon, each one was crafted by a master sword smith from Tilea over a half a century ago, and each one had been imbued with enchantments by a Tilean Necrarch he has had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of.

His eyes were set with grim determination as he walked towards the mutants, he began to ready himself for what was to come.

* * *

As the Beastmen tribe advanced, Rhaa-gor saw the one human who was stupid enough to advance upon them alone. They would tear the human apart and feast on his entrails, blood-lust had over taken Rhaa-gor and he roared along with his kin their praises to the Dark Gods. As they closed closer and closer, Rhaa-gor was the first to hurl his spear, his weapon threw straight and true and he saw with excitement as the spear was about to hit the human, then suddenly he was not there.

Before Rhaa-gor could even register it he heard a cry of pain and the smell of fresh blood near him. He stopped and skidded upon the muddy ground, he nearly even lost his balance. As his momentum slowed he heard more cries of pain and he saw three of his kin fall. There was something moving within their group, his eyes scanned and he knew not what it was he heard a cry of pain again and he was shocked to see what had been attacking them.

It was the human, but that was impossible, this human was moving so fast, it was like seeing those cursed elves of Athel Loren with their dancing blades. His kin tried to attack the human but he had been too fast, he leaped under and jumped over their attacks, he cut and stabbed wherever he went and his kin fell, he caught the glint of the two glowing blades carried by the human and he saw the human moving towards him. With a roar of fury he pulled out his hunting blade and attempted to stab the human.

As the human closed in, he thrust his blade forwards and he struck air, he looked around searching for the human, he then heard a moaning sound coming from one his kin which had fallen. He saw Morgor the elk headed one rise, Morgor's right eye bled where the human had stabbed him. He saw watched as his kinsman raised his spear and stabbed one of his fellow ungors. Confusion reigned among the beastmen as many soon began to rise and attack their kin.

Rhaa-gor fought with claw, fang and blade against these traitorous kin, he did not see the cleaving axe of Carnuc which accidentally severed his body in half along with that of three of his zombified kin.

* * *

Alejandro had to admit, he at time missed carnage such as this. His blades had been imbued to not only improve their ability to pierce flesh and armor, but it also made it easier for him create undead minions out of those he had slain by creating a necromantic link of sorts. Its power was limited to his own though for at the most he could only control a maximum of fifteen without sacrificing his skill with a blade. He watched as the beasts began to fight amongst each other and he made the stupid things dance to his tune.

He quickly spotted the leader, the giant bull which indiscriminately killed both its minions and the zombies around it. Dashing forwards with weapons at the ready he quickly weaved between the beastmen which had been busy fighting amongst each other in their confusion. He made his way to the bull-headed monstrosity and he stabbed its left thigh with both blades, it roared in pain and swiftly back-handed him.

The impact was like getting his by a boulder and he felt several of his bones shatter. Agony filled his body as he crashed into the mud, had he been mortal he would have been as good as dead. With his concentration broken the zombies fell but the damage was done. Slowly getting up, blood dribbled from the side of his mouth and his chest hurt like hell, already his body would be trying to mend the damage which was done, but it would not be enough.

He heard the shouts of human voices from behind the walls and the whinnying of horse, about time those drunken fools got ready. Rising to his feet, he looked for his hat which had disappeared, to his horror he saw it underneath the hooves of the beastmen and he watched as it was crushed and ruined by the chieftain. Anger boiled up within him, that hat had been worth fifteen _excelente_! Its magnificent feather was an authentic Great Eagle feather from Ulthuan! It was much more than all of the hides of those filthy beasts!

While he did have himself to blame as well for getting into this mess rather than running, his anger was solely directed upon the beastmen. With a roar of anger he charged them with his unnatural speed, his fangs were bared and his claws grew, the pain of his wound was forgotten and slashed his way through the beastmen once more. Carving a bloody path towards the chieftain, he began to stab, retract, slash, dodge and weave with a greater focus then he had before. With each strike of his blades his spite for it grew as it continued to live.

The Minotaur flailed about trying to get him, its kin as well, tried to get him but in their clumsy movements they ended up attacking each other by accident. Alejandro then leapt upon the chest of the Minotaur, it pounded its left fist upon his back and it felt as if he had been hit by an ogre's club. He cried in agony and he slashed his Ropera across the minotaur's throat and showering him in its foul blood.

The monster tried to clutch its neck and it struggled to breath, he stabbed it again and again in the chest with his blades and it fell hard upon its back. The beastmen stood dumbfounded at the death of their leader, they heard the clarion calls of the Bretonnian Knights who charged out of the gate and cut down many of them with their lances as Men-at-Arms followed them.

Knowing that he must flee lest the Bretonnians turn on him, Alejandro used his unnatural speed to disengage, by some miracle he avoided getting trampled or lanced and was soon able to grab his lute before he had disappeared into the dark wilderness. After running for a short distance, he breathed heavily and was clearly fatigued, he still had a long distance to go and he had wounds that needed healing, the pain began to return to him in full force and it made each step an agonizing one.

* * *

When the sun rose to greet the world, men came out of their homes relieved that the gods had delivered them from the Witch Night. At the inn no one knew quite what had happened, while the Bretonnian Knight Errants claimed that their charge was so fierce it had terrified and confused the beastmen rabble that attacked, all knew better than to argue against it.

No one was sure what happened to the Estalian bard that captivated them, the previous night, some of the women-folk lamented that he had not been there while some think that perhaps he was in league with the beastmen for why had the locks of the inn's door been undone? In the end all agreed that with his beguiling looks and ability to entrance, he indeed must have been some sort of fel agent of darkness.

Unknown to the patrons of the Sylvan's Rest Inn was that in a farmstead to the north in sight of Montfort itself, there lived a widow of middling years who had tended to her crops for over three decades. Her husband had died more than a year ago in the north of the province when greenskins threatened the Duke's lands. Her two sons were Men-At-Arms at the castle like their father and they sent her what money they could.

The widow had now lain naked upon a mattress of straw and hay, in rapturous bliss her arms were wrapped around the stranger who came in the dead of the night. She was terrified at first to see his deathly pale flesh and the blood which stained him. When her eyes met that of his, her terror had flushed away, and was replaced by longing. For one single night, that stranger made her forget all the troubles of the hard, cruel world.

The widow's breath was slow and steady; she found herself feeling unusually weary and thought that perhaps she should just sleep a bit longer. The stranger himself slept well for he felt warm and contented.


End file.
